


speak to me (with love in your words)

by MapleTreeway



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Slice of Life, Slow Burn, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wing Grooming, it's about the communication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-10-18 03:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20632571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleTreeway/pseuds/MapleTreeway
Summary: For as long as time began on Earth, Aziraphale lived alone. So living together now, sharing the same space…did not come easily at first for him. He very much wished it did; he wished that falling into a routine with Crowley was as simple as breathing. But it wasn’t. It warranted an adjustment period, he supposed. Living under surveillance and living privately were whole universes away from one another. To suddenly jump between them felt the same as — as — as —Well.At times, he’d catch a casual glimpse of Crowley simply existing in this shared space of theirs, and he’d feel overwhelmed. No rhyme or reason for it, either. Something within him malfunctioned.And Aziraphale was not stupid, he recognized what emotionally occupied the space between them. It had grown all these years from seed to root to stem and now it flowered. The only flora Crowley ever treated with care. Both of them tended to it, and it, at last, reached towards the brilliant sunlight. Yet they would not acknowledge its existence aloud. Too afraid of withering it, Aziraphale supposed. Even with the move.





	1. i see negative space

**Author's Note:**

> The title for the work is from AURORA's song "Soft Universe". The title for the chapter is from James Blake's "Barefoot In The Park"  
Most of the fic has already been written already. I felt it's easier to digest it in four different chapters.

They moved to the South Downs together because in the months after the first day of the rest of their lives, things just hadn’t been how they once were. 

Sometimes, when Aziraphale lit a candle inside his bookshop, he’d see flames lick up the walls; and this recurring mental image made him view his home differently. A fire had already come to pass once, who was to say it wouldn’t happen again? Only this time be so irreversible that his prized possessions well and truly would be gone? No demonic miracles or reality bends to save them?

Crowley didn’t seem to share his sentiments. Not in regards to his beloved Bentley. “She’s still got it,” he’d say with pride, tapping the hood. “Indestructible.”

“What about —”

“_Indestructible,_ Angel. That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

But both of them, it turned out, no longer felt as if their homes were homes anymore. Crowley consistently denigrated the permanent stain on his floor where Ligur had died, moaning about how it caused the entire apartment to depreciate. When really, in truth, he hated seeing it because it was ugly and it brought to mind ugly times. 

Aziraphale, only when alcohol loosened his lips, let slip his fear that Heaven really wouldn’t leave him alone while he still remained at the bookshop. A sinking suspicion grew within him that, sooner or later, Gabriel would visit again. Probably to kick him out so he could use the spot as a headquarter for something. 

Maybe it was the bustle of people that broke the camel’s back for both of them. Maybe it was looking into a sea of faces and realizing that everyone would’ve died not three months prior. Maybe it was walking through their usual haunts and instead of seeing what was in front of them, they saw a battlefield instead. What might’ve been became a constant abstraction.

“We should get out of London,” Crowley had proposed one night. They were in Crowley’s apartment, nursing whiskeys and chatting in the kitchen. Aziraphale sat on a white stool while Crowley sat atop the soapstone countertop. “Move away someplace neither Hell nor Heaven would expect.”

Aziraphale had sucked in his cheeks, swirled his glass. The amber had a beautiful tone to it, obviously top-shelf. “Not that that’d do much good,” he pointed out. “It doesn’t take much work to locate us.”

“True, but at least we could —” Crowley waved a hand — “get away. New location. Don’t you feel like we’ve been here too long?”

A pause. A consideration. “I couldn’t part with my books, Crowley. They’re too valuable.”

“So bring them with us. You could open a new bookshop to not sell books at wherever we end up.”

_Us._ _We._ Aziraphale sipped his drink. It felt warm going down, smooth. Same way Crowley made him feel. Lightheaded, dizzy, yet inexplicably warm in his chest. “Would we live together?” he asked as he looked at him. The dim lighting did all sorts of favors for Crowley, he thought, but the best was that it made his eyes stand out.

With an air of relief, Crowley leaned back against the kitchen cabinets. He loosened up his shoulders, allowed his hand holding his glass to lazily fall between his open legs. “Would make sense, I suppose,” he answered. “Your choice, though, Angel.”

* * *

They slept in separate beds in separate rooms because the cottage had come with two beds and, unlike Crowley, Aziraphale found little purpose for sleep. “I’d be reading all night. I’d keep you up,” he had said one night, a week before they were to move in.

Crowley had looked over at him, lazy in his movements like a reptile delighting in the sunshine. “I don’t mind. I know you, Aziraphale. I wouldn’t have offered if I’d have minded.”

Aziraphale focused on Crowley’s finger sliding down the spine of one of his books. The motion was thoughtless, careless in a way his words were not. Bed-sharing was nothing new. They’d done it once, twice before. In 1987, both of them had been too drunk to remember sobriety as an option, so they’d stumbled from the bookshop up to Aziraphale’s mostly unused bed.

And then recently, when there was nowhere else to go save for Crowley’s, because _his_ home hadn’t been lost to fire.

“It’s not,” Aziraphale found himself start to say. He bit his lower lip, eyes trained hard on Crowley’s finger absently moving up and down and up and down again. _ Paradise Lost _by John Milton. 10,000 lines of verse. Last time anyone had picked it up had been in 2004, and that person never visited the shop again. “It’s not the _reading_, so much as the _light_. I can’t see in the dark.”

“I can sleep with my sunglasses on.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

If Aziraphale had looked at him, he would’ve seen Crowley’s frown. “Angel…”

“Are you going to pack that book away or not? It’s very old and I’d hate for it to fall apart in your hands.”

* * *

They fixed up the cottage together without miracles because the leaks in the roof and the torn paint gave them something to do. Well, mostly without miracles. When one thought the other wasn’t looking, they’d perform a small miracle. Half a wall freshly painted here, a perfectly patched up hole there. 

From across the roof, Crowley tucked a lock of his red hair behind his ear. He planned on growing it out again, he’d explained. In the year since the first day of their lives, it’d grown a little bit past his chin. Aziraphale tried to hide how pleased that made him. He’d always favored Crowley with his hair long. It reminded him of Eden, of meeting him for the first time.

“Oi, Angel! Hand me that hammer when you’re done with it, will you?”

“Of course, my dear.”

In his 6,000 years of human observation, Aziraphale guessed home improvement to be a theme in retirement. Hoping to integrate amongst the locals of the South Downs, retired seemed as good an alibi as any. It made the most sense, anyhow. The easiest answer to the omnipresent question: “What made you two leave London?”

If the idea had been floated to him a year prior, he’d never, ever have considered Crowley and him to go into anything remotely resembling retirement. Angels and demons didn’t _retire_. That just wasn’t done. The work of the ethereal and the occult, respectively, never ended. There wasn’t a whole lot of room to kick back and stop.

Yet angels and demons also weren’t godparents or nannies or gardeners or anything remotely human in the job description. No, Aziraphale and Crowley had taken on those tasks by themselves. Gone full native in the drive to “thwart” one another. Commendable in its commitment really, if you asked him. 

“Are you sure you didn’t cheat?” Crowley asked now, crouched beside him.

Aziraphale swatted his accusing pointer finger away. “I’m an angel; I don’t _cheat_. No miracles were involved.”

“Uh-huh. So why are your hands still clean then?”

“Why are you inquiring over my handiwork, demon? What’s finished is finished.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, amusement written in the very slight curve of his lips. A glance down at them and Aziraphale’s resolve slipped a bit. A glance away from them, then back. A comet hurling itself in vain orbit. 

Crowley snapped his fingers. It launched Aziraphale out of his trance, and it made the rest of the roof hole-free.

“How — Crowley, _ how _— how is that fair?” Aziraphale sputtered, twisting around to look at the miraculous new shingles.

“I’m a demon. I don’t play fair. Never have.”

* * *

For as long as time began on Earth, Aziraphale lived alone. So living together now, sharing the same space…did not come easily at first for him. He very much wished it did; he wished that falling into a routine with Crowley was as simple as breathing. But it wasn’t. It warranted an adjustment period, he supposed. Living under surveillance and living privately were whole universes away from one another. To suddenly jump between them felt the same as — as — as — 

Well.

At times, he’d catch a casual glimpse of Crowley simply existing in this shared space of theirs, and he’d feel overwhelmed. No rhyme or reason for it, either. Something within him malfunctioned.

There have been moments, fleeting and few though they were, where he’d open a box only to see Crowley’s belongings in there as opposed to his. Artwork, statues, memorabilia of bygone eras. With a sense of wonder, he’d allow himself to gently trace over their grooves. Sketches done by Michelangelo; a small stone bust from Constantin Brâncuși; graffitied parts of the Berlin Wall. Bits, pieces of both Crowley’s life and humanity’s contained inside a miracled cardboard box.

And it shouldn’t have started to make his heart race so — it shouldn’t have — when he’d opened the large box containing a familiar statue. 1941 came rushing back to him, made his ears roar with a revered memory. The bomb, the books, the bomb, the bomb. _Love._ It hit him suddenly, synapses firing, that Crowley had gone back to the church after he’d given Aziraphale a lift. He had gone back for a reminder.

Aziraphale felt the air in his lungs spark into fire.

Rushes of feelings — both intangible and palpable — oftentimes occurred when he recognized items that belonged not just to Crowley’s life, but to his as well. Reminders of instances where their time on Earth intersected. All curated with a sense of importance alongside the other mementos. Crowley didn’t notice how it affected Aziraphale when he’d place them on the bookshelves beside Aziraphale’s own rare collectibles. Or when he’d nonchalantly hang them in the halls as if they didn’t thrust Aziraphale back centuries. Objects of his affections giving insight on how much he meant to him.

Yet another unspoken confession that hovered between them.

The more they settled into their home, the more it became a blended ecosystem. The minimalism Crowley preferred and the cluster Aziraphale adored found a happy medium. Their two opposing aesthetics made sense, somehow. Plants were arranged in every room alongside freshly-organized literature. Negative spaces felt purposeful, put there to allow breathing space amidst the antique furniture. It wasn’t stark or cluttered. Their cottage felt homey, yet not stifling so.

Theirs.

This cottage was _theirs_. 

6,000 years of being hereditary enemies. 6,000 years of clandestine companionship for fear Heaven and Hell would find out. 6,000 years only to unravel into _this_. This cottage of _theirs_. A space where they lived _together_ without fear of reprimand.

Being on their own side meant no more denial, no more worrying. It felt lighter this way. Getting drunk on fine wine in _their_ own living room, surrounded by Aziraphale’s books and on Crowley’s couch, felt sweeter than when they’d gotten drunk surrounded by only Aziraphale’s books. 

And Aziraphale was not stupid, he recognized what emotionally occupied the space between them. It had grown all these years from seed to root to stem and now it flowered. The only flora Crowley ever treated with care. Both of them tended to it, and it, at last, reached towards the brilliant sunlight. Yet they would not acknowledge its existence aloud. Too afraid of withering it, Aziraphale supposed. Even with the move. 

That, or acknowledging it simply felt too overwhelming for both of them.

* * *

The South Downs provided a form of relief from the quiet, malevolent thoughts of war. There grew steady tranquility in the atmosphere, universes quieter than London had been. Their nearest neighbors — a Mr. and Mrs. Houghton — were a fifteen-minute stroll up the road. The town was a twenty-minute drive, ten with Crowley at the wheel. In every aspect, the two of them lived in privacy.

Naturally, they pushed everything related to Armageddon out of sight.

And this worked for them for quite some time.

* * *

Aziraphale had left his gramophone behind in the bookshop he didn’t sell. Meanwhile, Crowley had brought a turntable with him from his now-sold Mayfair flat. It’d been stolen in the 1960s off a corrupt politician who had given in to temptation so easily, Crowley practically managed to tempt him with his eyes wide shut. At least, that was the narrative he painted to Aziraphale.

It really was a thing of all-around beauty. From high-quality sound to detail trimmings to its ability to playback 78 RPM. Crowley, proud to Hell and back of it, decided that it ought to be placed with extreme distinction on the living room mantel, connected to a first-rate stereo system. Naturally, this included all of his 137 records carefully stacked on both sides of the mantel in vinyl racks; ordered alphabetically, then by year of release.

Aziraphale didn’t understand any of it. “These bands have such peculiar names,” he commented while Crowley, who sat beside him on the floor, organized. 

“It’s part of the appeal,” Crowley replied, half-absentminded. He fished out a record from the pristine cardboard box between them. It’d been labeled _ VERY FRAGILE DO NOT DAMAGE _ _ — _which Aziraphale believed to be quite pointless in the face of small miracles.

“Are these all similar to that one band? The underground one.”

“The Velvet Underground?”

“Yes.”

Crowley blew out his cheeks, looked pensively at one of his houseplants. “Some are,” he answered after a moment. “What’s the one you’ve got in your hand there?”

Aziraphale lifted it up, front-side, so that Crowley could peer at it over his sunglasses. It’d been titled _ The World Won’t Listen,_ with what could only be inferred as the band pictured, backs turned. There wasn’t anything to suggest any sort of bebop-ness, though the same could have been said in regards to _ The Very Best of The Velvet Underground._ One never knew.

“Pass it over to me?” Crowley asked, holding his hand out. “I’d like to take a look at that tracklist.”

Aziraphale handed it over to him without a word, watched as Crowley delicately opened it up, took out the paper containing the tracklist, and studied it. Muttered under his breath, flipped it over. Shifted his weight. Flipped it over again. Slid it back inside the cover, lips pursed. 

“Well? Is it similar?” Aziraphale asked after a moment.

“Hmm?” Crowley jumped a bit, as if he’d been caught redhanded in something. “Oh, yes. The Smiths and Velvet — _very _similar. Best not to listen to them.”

The rest of the next hour and a half passed by smoothly enough. Aziraphale helped Crowley finish sorting everything out amidst the background noise of a band called The Clash. Why they decided on such an abrasive name was well and truly beyond him.

A trend quickly became apparent. Bands from completely different eras were, in fact, related to the Velvet Underground. Fleetwood Mac; Bronski Beat; Depeche Mode. A lot of the albums were, in fact, related to _ The Very Best of the Velvet Underground._ _Greatest Hits; __The Age of Consent; The Singles 86-98. _

“You wouldn’t like it,” Crowley had said in the car, and now said any excuse under the universe.

“What about this one?” Aziraphale questioned, holding up an innocent-looking album. _Please Please Me. _"This has to be quite good music. They're all smiling on the cover, and I believe they'd later go on to have a similar hairstyle to what you had."

"The Beatles most certainly did not have good music.”

If the atmosphere kept on becoming a smidge terser each time Aziraphale inquired over a similar record, he kept the observation to himself.

* * *

Nights by the seaside were wondrously different than nights in Soho. Since fully settling in roughly a fortnight ago, they’d started to go out on barefoot walks by the beach, toes happily curling around the cool sand. 

It was only them out, as opposed to them and hundreds of faceless passerby. The sound of waves crashing on rocks replaced the noise of the cars on the street. Their conversations felt a world away, tucked in between themselves rather than lost to the ether. Maybe this allowed the compliments to grow in frequency. Because compliments had, for the most part, previously been exchanged between them. Decades upon centuries of compliments, passed back and forth in much the same way Halley’s Comet passed by Earth. 

Oftentimes after their strolls, they took the conversation to the living room. Still too hot for the fireplace to be of use, they settled on sitting on the floor, listening to whichever record Crowley decided to play. Aziraphale noticed he never played any of the bebop ones, and he kept this peculiar observation to himself as well.

Mostly they’d reminisce over drinks, which occasionally derailed into intoxication. If the mood struck them just right, they’d pull out their Scrabble board and start up a game, which lead them to bicker over the translated spelling of dead language words.

“You can’t possibly be spelling that correctly, my dear.”

“I _am._ Write down thirty-six points.”

“_Thirty-six?_ On God, I will not!”

“See, Angel,” Crowley lifted the tiles, peered at him over his sunglasses, and quirked an eyebrow upwards. “That’s a triple word spot combined with a double letter spot. I _ rightfully _gain thirty-six points.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, calculated it. “I still very much doubt you’ve spelled it right.”

“Who has the better memory?”

“Who lost their way through Rome?”

“_We _got lost in Rome!” At Aziraphale’s knowing sip from his wine glass, Crowley let out a frustrated sigh. Stuck out a hand. “Give me the scoresheet.”

“You’ll cheat.”

"Oh, for Satan's —"

* * *

In their mission to integrate, they overlooked the small issue of their marriage. They weren’t married in any sense of the word, never even gave the impression that they were; yet people assumed them to be. 

He pinned it on their living arrangement. That, and the fact that neither of them sought to correct the narrative.

Aziraphale didn’t feel bothered by the usage of “husband”; there was something...different about it. Granted, he’d heard it all before. Descriptor terms such as “boyfriend”, “partner”, “friend” usually were flung their way. And those never bothered him, either, even when they took him aback. But the word “husband” rang new to his ears in a way that commanded adjustment. 

Mr. and Mrs. Houghton had been the first to say it. 

The two had been walking their massive Goldendoodle past their cottage while Crowley gardened in the front lawn. Aziraphale, sat half-reading under the apple tree — which Crowley _swore_ he didn’t plant, yet it hadn’t been there when they’d first toured the cottage —, waved hello to them. The extent of his interaction with them, made polite by how far away he was.

Naturally, as good neighbors do, the two struck up a conversation with Crowley. Chatted about the weather; about Crowley’s immaculate plants; about how they were still trying to housebreak their two-year-old puppy. Toby was their first dog, did he know? They’d decided on the Goldendoodle breed because Goldendoodles — allegedly — were a very intelligent, very hypoallergenic breed. But, oh dear, their purebred hybrid dog Toby turned out to be a handful. He required more brushing than Mrs. Houghton getting ready to host a party. 

Then, to Crowley’s absolute horror, Toby decided it a fantastic idea to mark his territory all over the pristine hedges. Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Houghton saw nothing wrong with this. They hardly even batted an eye to it.

“He _shit _on the grass. On the _ grass_!”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley now, brow furrowed, and decided to close his book. Admittedly, he’d only been half-listening before. Then the inflection of the S’s gave away how distraught Crowley felt, and thus commanded his full attention. “Did they —”

“_No._ They didn’t have a bag on them! Who the Heaven doesn’t have a bag on them while walking their dog? ‘It’s good fertilizer, you know.’ The _gall_. Come! Look at it!” Crowley made a beckoning motion; his gardening gloves flicked dirt off them as he did.

Aziraphale stood, dusted off his pants, and followed. 

True to Crowley’s word, an offensive piece of excrement lay right next to a hedge. The anger radiated off Crowley, a sun about to explode, so much so that the _hedges_ shook.

Aziraphale tried and failed to hold back a snort of amusement. 

Crowley shot him a nasty glare. “Really, Aziraphale? Not one ounce of oh, I don’t know, sympathy? You’re just going to laugh at all my hard work being literally _ — _ and I mean _ literally _— shit on?”

“No, dear, I apologize. I —” he suppressed a chuckle. The image of a dog successfully daring to desecrate the infamous demon Crowley’s garden was simply too good. 

“You bastard; you’re not the least bit sorry.”

“No, I don’t suppose I am.”

Crowley glowered at him, then back at the source of his anger. Aziraphale observed the downturned purse of his lips, the disgusted wrinkles on his scrunched nose. Oh, damn it.

Aziraphale miracled the shit away, and liked to think it wound up on the Houghton’s carpet. Crowley turned to look at him, expression unreadable. 

“Now you’ll never know that it was there,” Aziraphale explained with a shrug.

Crowley didn’t say anything other than a murmured “Thank You” for a long minute. His sunglasses made his eyes hard to read, but the way his body seemed to relax just a smidge gave away his relief. More annoyed than angry now, Aziraphale would guess. In any case, the hedges got a hold of themselves.

“‘Are you and your husband dog parents?’”

It was like getting punched in the jugular.

Aziraphale tripped over his words in the same way a person tripped over their laces. “I beg — I beg your pardon?”

Crowley turned towards him, arms crossed. “That’s what they inquired. ‘Are you and your husband dog parents?’”

“Did you tell them —” 

"No? We’re on the same page there. ‘Course I told them no.”

_ That we aren’t married, _Aziraphale corrected in his mind. He didn’t bother with it, though. He allowed himself to feel the weight of Crowley's arm leaning on his shoulder instead.

* * *

Months slipped past in the way that they typically did. Leaves grew, changed, fell. The water phased from deep blue to muddy green to steel grey. Winter in full bloom. With it came the abysmal weather, made moodier thanks to the perpetual clouds hugging the coastline. Two weeks of rain only to clear up into a fine mist. Temporarily, of course. It was due to rain once again later in the afternoon. 

Aziraphale never minded the rain. It reminded him of Eden, of shared beginnings. There rested a level of comfort rainstorms provided. Perhaps it was the security, or the trust of life, or the slow honey-like atmosphere the rain gave. 

No, it definitely was a combination. 

Crowley, however, held a different opinion on rainfall. Two weeks of rain snuffed his mood out until he burned in annoyance. For him, there rested a level of unease the dreary weather issued. It assumed form in the way his fingers tapped aimlessly on whatever surface available; the way he glowered out the window; the way he muttered curses under his breath.

The only time Crowley ever quieted down about it was when Aziraphale provided cover. Umbrella above them, shoulders brushing. Tolerance. Aziraphale wondered if it reminded Crowley of their shared beginning, too. Or if it was simply the creature comfort of a shelter.

But the rain took a break, a breather for the day. Pleased, Crowley had disappeared into town early in the morning, called out a happy goodbye. Aziraphale had watched him go before he ventured out to read underneath the apple tree.

It was now somewhere between four and five o’clock in the afternoon, and the rain had begun again.

Steam still rose from the teacup when Crowley burst into the kitchen from the back door. Red hair sprinkled water onto the wall as he shook his head, an entire person drenched from the rain. He held a parcel in his hand.

Aziraphale took a moment to observe the dreadful state he was in before miracling him dry. A misbehaved lock curled in front of Crowley’s face. Crowley tucked it back. “You know,” he started, only to be cut off.

“If you’re going to say I should have expected this, I _will _discorporate you,” Crowley threatened in the most non-threatening manner. Clearly upset, Crowley drawled his S’s as if they were rope he had to reel in.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. Both of them knew the claim to be empty air. “Did the rain…?”

"The rain caught me off guard, _yes._ Okay? Good. Glad that’s settled.” Crowley ran his hand over his face. This lodged the curl loose again. Aziraphale’s fingers twitched. He set his cup on the counter. When he looked up, the curl had been pushed back once more.

“Would you like some tea? I’m fairly certain there’s more boiled water in the kettle.”

“Nah, it’s alright. I got things to do. Plans.”

“Plans?”

Crowley waved the parcel in the air; and when he shook it, it rattled. “Plans,” he said with an air of finality. 

“Well, I’d hate to get in the way of your…” Aziraphale tried to inspect the parcel from across the room. Light brown and boxy. True to its parcel nature, it gave away nothing on the inside. Damn. “What, exactly, is it you’re going to be doing?”

“A bit of inside gardening, I think.”

“Well then, I won’t disturb your inside gardening adventure.”

Crowley tipped his head towards him on his way out of the kitchen. And that _stupid,_ stubborn curl slid out of place, dangled in front of Crowley’s face. Aziraphale, forgetting himself, called out. Regretted it a moment later when Crowley hit him with a quizzical look. Ah well, too committed now to back out. 

He crossed the distance between them swiftly. Stood before him, he lifted a hand before retracting it, remembering himself. “May I?” he asked, searching Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley held eye contact, panic-stricken until something synced in his brain. His gaze flitted around the room. Anywhere else. “No use, but have a go,” he murmured. He picked at the parcel’s tape.

Aziraphale reached out again, this time his fingers tenderly caught the offending lock of red hair. It felt soft, impossibly so. He tucked it behind Crowley’s ear, fingertips brushing skin as he followed the curve. Without a word, he miracled the lock to behave. He felt Crowley’s eyes on him. The picking of the parcel’s tape had stopped, too. Aziraphale, fingers slowly running through the rest of Crowley’s hair, met his gaze. 

“Um, you’re not going to, ah, yell at them, are you?”

On quite the melodramatic exhale, Crowley’s shoulders sagged down. “What else am I to do? Coddle them?” he bit back softly.

Aziraphale shot him a disappointed look. “You could,” he started, standing taller, “try a little tenderness.”

“Tenderness never grew anything, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, I disagree.”

“Of course _you _do.”

There were words, unspoken, dancing around the air surrounding them. Arguments to be made about how tenderness did grow things, actually, because it grew _them._ It’s sustained their proverbial garden for centuries. Without batting an eye, Aziraphale could list numerous tender actions Crowley’s ever done for him or for humankind. Big miracles, small miracles, no miracles involved. From just the other day to way back when their Arrangement first began. Crowley, demonic and fallen, exuded tenderness whenever he thought no one watched.

There were words, unspoken, that could fall aloud around the space between them. They could fall like the rain outside, if Aziraphale so wanted, and drench them both. A single four-letter word could act as a metaphorical metallic key attached to a kite. Ignite them, set them ablaze. But Crowley hated the rain unless Aziraphale provided cover, and there was no cover to hide under in such instance. They’d be out in the open, terrified.

Aziraphale was plenty of things, but he never fancied himself cruel. 

“If you’re going to be harsh, my dear, please keep the volume down,” he said instead. Let him live.

Crowley shifted his weight. “No promises.” 

“Crowley —”

“No promises!” He reiterated as he turned into the hallway.

If his inside gardening adventure ended up being on the quieter side of things, well, they both said nothing of it.

* * *

Weeks. Weeks of skating figure eights around one another. It was as if they still feared getting caught. As if one wrong, mistaken touch could shatter the ice beneath them. Plunge them into the frigid water. 

Oddly, the only time they both felt safe enough to intersect, to touch, tended to be under the Milky Way. Under stars Crowley had helped build once, eons ago. Under stars sparkling and next to dark waves crashing and on soft sand curling up between their toes. They held hands, then. They held hands and slipped compliments in and watered their garden.

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to only hold Crowley’s hand in the dark. 

* * *

“Couldn’t you have just bought them a cake?” Crowley pointed out, sat on the wooden countertop.

Aziraphale gave him a stern look. “Not the same,” he replied as he cracked an egg. Half the shell wound up in the batter. A frustrated sigh escaped his lips.

Crowley leaned over, fished the shell out. Ate it just to gauge Aziraphale’s reaction. Which, as expected, was one of surprised mild disgust. Crowley smacked his lips, said, “It needs lemon extract.”

“That’d ruin it.”

“Mrs. Houghton likes a little zest in her cakes.”

“It’s already exceeded the limit of ‘a little’, my dear.”

The sun shone through the kitchen windows, gifted everything inside with soft morning highlights. The obsidian vase by the sink appeared to shimmer; the spilled flour on the countertop looked more like fresh downy snow; and Crowley’s eyes...Aziraphale tried not to stare. Because the angle of the sun had hit them just right, turned them into something mesmerizing.

“Hold on, Angel, you’ve got,” Crowley began, and lifted a thumb towards Aziraphale’s cheeks, only to falter before he touched him. “Flour. Right there. No, a little left, yes. Good. Now it’s gone.”

Something sunk inside Aziraphale’s chest. Something akin to both disappointment and frustration. It held the same atmosphere as a grand piano falling off a boat and descending with faux-sereness to the bottom of the blue ocean. Only, he didn’t want blue. He wanted red. He wanted unreserved contact. He wanted tenderness and openness and for them to gaze around their garden unabashedly rather than blindly tiptoe around.

But he said none of it. He smiled, eyes flicking down and up in a semi-flirtatious way, and went to wash his hands free of batter under the clear blue water.

* * *

They discovered a pier. Hidden away, half-rotted, it’s broken wooden frame jutted out into the sea. Beside it, there rested a seaweed-strewn sailboat. It lay beached and it, too, was broken. 

“I’m sure the sailboat people are fine,” Crowley reassured.

“Most likely it’s been forgotten about,” Aziraphale agreed. Squeezed his hand.

“Most likely.”

After a few hesitant heartbeats, Crowley squeezed back.

Aziraphale felt his shoulders sag, he hadn’t realized he’d been holding them up. Maybe something needed to give way. Maybe they needed to feel the water in the same way the sailboat did, minus the broken aspect.

"You’re allowed to be gentle around me,” Aziraphale said softly. He did not look at him, they very much avoided eye contact, yet Crowley’s hand trembled underneath his. And that was enough to know what he must feel like, what expression must lay on his face. Aziraphale tried to soothe him, traced patterns from fingertips to weathered skin. Words rushed out, fast and breathless. He couldn’t stop them. “It’s in your nature too, you don’t have to deny it anymore. We’re on our own side now, Crowley. _Our side_. You’re as much a demon as I am an angel; you’re allowed to be gentle.”

They very much avoided eye contact, yet the sharp inhalation of breath, nearly drowned out by the sea, was enough.

It was enough.


	2. i want my self back, the one i know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Doesn’t it bother you still?” Crowley asked, leaned towards him. “Don’t you still think about what could have happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reception on the first chapter! Here's chapter two after three weeks of editing/rewriting. Can I hear a wahoo? Huge, big love & thanks to my friend M for helping me edit. This one's for you, my man  
The title of this chapter is from the film The Piano (1993, dir. Jane Campion)

“Would you like to help me tend to the violets?”

That’s how it began. With the violets and the hyacinths and some snowdrops. Out in the garden, under a clouded sky, and under no circumstances that _they_ should receive any kindness. 

“Remember, Angel,” Crowley had warned him, really rather too seriously, as he opened the kitchen’s back door, “they’ll try to pry sympathy from you.”

He’d been right, Aziraphale thought now, really rather a bit indifferently, as he assessed the shaking flowers. “Dear,” he started, leaning oh so casually closer to Crowley, “what is it I am supposed to be doing?”

“I’ll show you.”

And show him he did, though Aziraphale possessed the opposite of a green thumb. Despite his harsh demeanor, Crowley was careful when he handled the flowers. Watered them gingerly while he shot them withering glares. He taught Aziraphale the different types of fertilizers and which plants they went with. Demonstrated to him the correct way to cut off dead stems and leaves (done purely in the theoretical, of course, because his garden’s standard was nothing short of perfection).

Green, purple, blue, yellow, red. All the colors of the world contained in one giant, vibrant, color-filled garden. So contrary to Crowley's own state of dress or preferred color palette, it came as a soft shock to lay eyes upon it. "I don't think," Aziraphale began, "that I'll ever get used to seeing this out our back window. It's truly magnificent."

"Come off it, Angel."

"No, Crowley, I mean it. You put so much love in _—_"

"Don't really do love when it comes to plants," Crowley interjected, narrowing his eyes at a snowdrops' petal. "Is that a spot? Aziraphale, do you see a spot here?"

It felt like an open doorway, helping Crowley tend to the garden. He stepped through its threshold when he picked up a pair of gardening gloves. They were a bit long on him, but he wore them with affection even still. He was greeted in the foyer with soft direction. Gentle words of encouragement in the face of mistakes. Offered contact, unreserved, when it came time to dig holes for the vegetables. Crowley by the side of his body, hands on top of Aziraphale's as he guided him. They spent the morning out, and when the midday sun threatened to uncover the sky's blanket, they retreated inside.

“D’you got anything planned on Thursday?”

Aziraphale looked up from where he poured water into glasses. Crowley absentmindedly twirled a small gardening shear in the air, tossed it up and caught it when it came down. “No,” Aziraphale said, tearing his eyes away from Crowley’s hands. 

“Can I tempt you to a little picnic? Figured there's a place I want to take you.”

* * *

They sped along in the Bentley, eastward. Past Brighton, past Newhaven, and past Seaford. Hills rolled while the sea remained stagnant out the driver's side window. Grasslands flew by until they all bled into one another. Inside the car, Crowley’s hands conducted an entire symphony of conversation while they chatted. On the wheel; off the wheel; nowhere close to the wheel; _ please for the love of God Herself take hold of the wheel thank you very much! _

“Don’t see why you’re complaining,” Crowley muttered. “I’m a fantastic driver.”

“You had hit — _ hit, _ Crowley, you had _ hit — _someone once.”

“Yeah, yeah, well, that’s beside the point, innit? She’s alright now.”

“_Now._ She didn’t look alright when I first saw her,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Oh Lord, let there be light,” Crowley sang.

“I already told you,” Aziraphale defended, distressed. “I didn’t _mean _ to scare her, I simply wanted to see if she was alive!”

Far off, the Seven Sisters came into stunning view, white chalk cliffs with green hair atop them. The sun bounced off the water, turned the sea into something vivid. Wind breezed through tree branches and coastal grass patches, a hand that ran through hair. Aziraphale chanced a glance at Crowley, who quickly broke the unexpected eye contact and looked back out the windshield. The Cuckmere replaced the English Channel, a different sort of beautiful. Crowley's neck tinged the barest of reds. 

There was a car park off the A259 with a map of the various trails. Crowley, upon seeing the parking meter, had a full mind to not pay out of principle. Aziraphale gave him a disappointed look, pointed out that the money went to upkeep. If no one contributed, how would the park remain cleanly? Fit for visiting?

Crowley paid. Begrudgingly, of course.

They started down the trail. Crowley held the picnic basket in the hand not holding Aziraphale’s. And that felt lovely, to hold hands under the early-spring sun. Like their conversation’s topic, the scenery changed the more they strolled. From gardening techniques to historical figures to waxing philosophical over nothing. From fields to a river valley to the cliffside. 

There weren’t too many people about, few and far between. Some passed them by with their dogs on leads, the others were either alone or with a companion. Visiting season not yet in swing. They were left to their own private conversation, as if this was simply another one of their nighttime strolls by the seaside. 

And oh! The view from the top of the Seven Sisters came straight from a Monet painting! Light, airy, dabbled. Beautiful. Intrinsically beautiful. 

"Been a while since either one of us has been here,” Crowley explained. He switched the basket over to his other hand. 

“Since the opening of the park, was it?” Aziraphale guessed, tried to remember.

"Was it really?”

Now it came back to him, memories falling into place. A child's laughter; the breeze; a warm spring day. "Yes, yes I do believe so. We had taken Warlock here on an outing."

Crowley let out a hum of remembrance. "He wanted to chase after the gulls. Jesus wept, he was a handful."

"But you were good with him."

"Oh, shut up, Angel." Fond.

Aziraphale picked out a picturesque spot a good distance away from the trail. Together, they set up a small picnic area with the blanket Aziraphale remembered to pack. Crowley broke out a vintage bottle of red wine, which they took leisurely turns drinking from, and an assortment of fruits they nibbled on. The spread felt transported from the late 19th century France; a feeling which Aziraphale kept in quiet amusement to himself.

Their hands brushed a few times, their fingers seeking one another's. An index curled around a ring finger; a thumb that traced a wrist. Crowley's legs crossed, uncrossed, bumped Aziraphale's in jest. Lingered. Stayed. Warm against the fresh wind which tousled their hair. 

Maybe, perhaps, on the next go-round of the bottle, he could inch closer to him? Golden hour transitioned upon them. Maybe, perhaps, on the next-next go-round of the bottle, he could lay his head on his shoulder? Crowley’s hair turned to fire in the light, a Pierre-Auguste painting. And maybe, perhaps, on the next-next-next go-round of the bottle, he could angle his head upwards and touch faith?

As it were, the bottle ran dry before such heartfelt instances of physicality could occur. It felt cheap to miracle it full again. Besides, neither were in the mood for more alcohol. Aziraphale sighed, leaned back on his hands. In his peripheral, he saw Crowley match him. He attempted to find something to fill in the gap. What was there to talk about? What would break the silence best? Ideas flitted about, a hummingbird who briefly considered a flower before it ventured off again. He let it lie in a haphazard attempt. If he were being honest with himself _—_ and at this moment he chose to be _— _he preferred the repose. The even breathing, the sea below them, the birds above. For the first time in a while, he felt content.

“To think this would all have been destroyed.”

A rock thrown against a window, shattered it. Shattered the tranquil atmosphere. Shattered an unconsciously built dam.

“Let’s not talk about it right now,” Aziraphale dismissed, eyes trained hard on the horizon. An unpleasant flood enveloped him, made his heart beat a bit faster. Threatened to sweep him away.

“Doesn’t it bother you still?” Crowley asked, leaned towards him. “Don’t you still think about what could have happened?”

There was a hidden message in the words, but Aziraphale chose not to decipher it. He inhaled, exhaled, blinked a few times too quickly. “We’re not in London anymore,” he said. Resolute.

Crowley backed off. 

The bottle refilled itself.

* * *

Sometimes, in the weeks following, after Crowley left for bed, or when he felt a wave of melancholy, Aziraphale would think of his bookshop. He couldn’t help it. Not with the coming summer that offered little distractions; and not with his inability to build the dam up again. Every time he tried to put pieces back - the fears, the restlessness, the fires - they fell on top of him. Heavy as ten-tonne stones weighted to his pockets.

It was irrational, he understood, for he never did see the bookshop burn. It itched at him, even though, to not know what the bookshop looked like now. If he'd lost what he couldn't bring with him.

Then there rested the fruitless anxiety of Armageddon. Armageddon had been averted, yes, yet it was hard to concentrate on a conversation when he violently visualized hellfire and divine smite. He held out hope, more out of desperation than faith, that the Ineffable Plan didn’t resort to such measures. That God didn’t create humankind and all its wonderful flaws only to destroy it like a child destroys their block cities. That this wasn't simply an interlude, an eye of a storm, and that the South Downs would still remain a safe haven for Crowley and himself.

He was not in London anymore, no. He was not in London, and these thoughts shouldn’t invade his mind, and he wanted himself back.

* * *

Music drifted through the cottage. Loud music. The type with a good beat to it, backed by synths. Aziraphale, ensconced in his study, paused reading his current novel to listen to its muted sound. Surely not? Crowley wouldn't.

The opening of the door only allowed the music to grow in volume. It hit his face, a man's voice rang through his ears. It didn't sound half-bad, but its volume left much to be desired. Mind full with intent to tell Crowley to turn it down, he ventured out to the living room. He saw Crowley there, dancing horrendously, a watering can in hand. And oh, Lord, the volume punched his eardrums here.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale called, nearly yelled due to the volume. "What is this?"

"Bronski Beat, baby!" Crowley answered, watered a hanging pot. "_The Age Of Consent!"_

Aziraphale frowned, let it lie. That had been one of the bebop records. 

Crowley, he thought as he watched him with a hand on his hip, could not dance. His limbs flung about out of rhythm, his hair flew out of control. Wild. Carefree. So _terribly _out of time.

But if a smile escaped his lips on his way back into his study, music blared behind him, he did not stop it.

* * *

Time drew ever closer to when Crowley typically bid goodnight, yet he seemed in no particular hurry to do so. 

They were across from one another, Crowley lying on his stomach and Aziraphale seated before the sofa. Every so often, Aziraphale would subtly glance upwards from the book he read to see if Crowley had any sort of intention of going to bed. And every time, his eyes met the same scene of Crowley staring morosely into the unused fireplace.

He had half a mind to inquire what it was that bothered him so. What it was that made him silent and sad. Then he thought about it, about how Armageddon circled their conversations like a vulture circled a carcass, and he let it go. He'd wanted red, unreserved; but this felt like red, splattered from an open wound. And he wanted to be there for him, but he didn't know what to say. What could he say? What was there to say that hadn't already been said?

_I fear to lose you; do you fear to lose me, too?_

The minutes ticked by, and it all remained the same. The minutes ticked by, and it really was past the usual time now. The minutes ticked by, and it happened in the form of a quiet question.

“What are you reading?”

Crowley’s eyes were vulnerable when Aziraphale met them with his own. Open like that of a field covered by thunderclouds. Tired, too. “Auden,” Aziraphale answered, tried to convey the concern in his tone of voice. “A collection of his poetic works.”

“Can I tempt you to read to me?” Crowley asked.

“No temptation required.” _ I’d read to you gladly whenever you’d want. _

Crowley crawled over, covered the meager space between them in no time at all. With a sort of hesitance — tentativeness — he sat beside Aziraphale, pressed his side to his. Locks of red hair fell over Aziraphale’s shoulder and partially obscured his vision of the book, so he tucked them back behind Crowley’s ear. Crowley shifted, gained a more comfortable position with his head resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder, his hand on Aziraphale’s thigh. Let out the smallest of exhales.

Aziraphale began, his even tone not betraying the beating of his heart. “Looking up at the stars, I know quite well, that for all they care, I can go to...Ah. Maybe not this poem in —”

“Hell,” Crowley finished for him. Exhausted. “Keep going, Angel.”

He gathered himself, strengthened by the term of endearment, and continued on. “But on earth indifference…”

The minutes ticked by, and they read through pages of Auden’s works. The minutes ticked by, and Crowley’s breath grew evener. The minutes ticked by, and Aziraphale found himself with Crowley softly dozing on his shoulder.

Lips stopped sounding out words, silence breezed through the living room. Were summer nights always so cozy? 

He could turn his head. Turn his head, angle it downwards, and place his lips on the top of Crowley’s head. A gentle kiss goodnight. He could, he could, he could.

“Dearest,” he whispered, tested the waters of consciousness. “Dearest?”

A bleary: “Hm?”

Ah, what now? 

Aziraphale placed the book off to the side. He brought an arm up around Crowley’s waist. “Come on, let’s get you to your bed.”

“‘S far away,” Crowley murmured, S’s slurred. “Couch’s better.”

They stumbled upwards, Crowley half-awake and Aziraphale awkwardly guiding him to lie down again. Across the top of the couch lay a throw blanket, which Aziraphale made quick use of, draping it over Crowley. Probably unnecessary, considering the time of year, but he hoped the comfort would outweigh its extra warmth. And it grew impossible - a tulip blooming in winter - to wonder if this was simply an interlude.

A hand caught his wrist as he turned to leave. “Stay,” Crowley pleaded.

“I’d be up all night, Crowley.”

“Doesn’t...doesn’t matter. Stay. Please?”

Aziraphale interlaced their fingers, squeezed. “Alright. Alright, I’ll stay.”

* * *

Aziraphale's fingers flipped through a gardening book he'd bought from the bookshop in town — which paled in comparison to his own bookshop, he thought — full attention devoted to it. A bee buzzed near his ear, darted in and out of his field of vision, and settled on a diagram of a hydrangea flower. He absentmindedly waved it away. 

He felt Crowley wrap his arms around his midsection from behind, saw his long legs stretch out beside his, and felt his chin rest upon his shoulder. Pleasant. Terrifying. Made Aziraphale’s heart take flight, but pleasant all the same. 

“Doing research?” Crowley asked with breath that tickled Aziraphale’s ear.

“With the book you recommended,” Aziraphale added. His back fit to Crowley’s chest in the same way the cottage fit them. "I am rather surprised, dear. I thought you didn't do books."

Crowley hummed in response, tucked his face in the crook of Aziraphale's neck.

The diagram on the page grew out of focus and his heart tried to beat right out his ribcage and a hand quickly covered Crowley's own and he had _never_ in his life been held like this by him. Out under the apple tree with sunlight which dappled down upon them. Out under the apple tree with the fresh air which promised to take them somewhere. If Crowley were to press a kiss - if Crowley were to move away - he didn't know what he'd do. What would he do? He's spooled out into the unknown. A giver who levitated in the realm of the receiving. He didn't know, he didn't know, he didn't know.

"This okay, Angel?" Gentle.

"_Yes._" Breathless.

Aziraphale wanted to follow where the fresh air lead. He wanted to breach somewhere with Crowley.

* * *

"I do," Aziraphale said, out of the blue, without context. They were out by the seaside, sat in the sand on a blanket, playing a thrilling game of chess. "I do think about it still. I...want to see the bookshop again."

Crowley moved his piece. "Your turn, Angel," he said.

Aziraphale frowned.

* * *

“It looks…”

“The same.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said with a sigh of mixed emotion. “I suppose it does.”

The key, once familiar, felt odd in his hands. He’d hidden it away to be forgotten about back in the South Downs between Christine de Pizan’s books and Chaucer’s works. Evidently, he’d remembered where he’d stashed it, and now he brought it out from his coat pocket. “Right,” he said, more to himself than to Crowley, who now tapped staccato rhythms from his fingers. “Let’s go in.”

Inside dust cluttered the place more than the few remaining books did. The light from the late afternoon sun struck the particles off-kilter, highlighted them and the space in a reddish tinge. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes; the smell of old books and wood and memoriams of times past invaded his senses. Familiar, still, even after a year apart. It didn’t feel like home, no, not anymore. That title belonged to their cottage now. But it felt like a bygone era of his life’s novel, where so much had occurred between the opening and the closing of its chapter, that it commanded a form of respect.

He gave it a moment. Exhaled. Opened his eyes anew.

Flames singed the pages' edges.

Crowley’s eyes were on him, so he looked his way. Something troubled lurked within them, mirrored his own trouble, yet it was outshone by gentle concern. Aziraphale held out his hand, and Crowley took it. Squeezed quickly as if it were a proverbial lifeline. Neither of them spoke.

Hand in hand, they toured the bookshop. Passed down stuffy aisles and through narrowed passageways. Crowley would run his hand over bookshelves idly. Sometimes his brows would furrow when he did so, other times his eyes would glance at Aziraphale. And it was a silent matter, this appreciation of a chapter, where the only sounds were of the outside’s ambiance and their footfalls inside. They left themselves to their own individual remembrances.

That bookshelf had contained most of the Oscar Wilde first editions. Now, they resided in the cottage living room on a floating shelf near the window. Ah, and this bookshelf still held the Infamous Bibles. How odd he hadn’t taken them with him. Perhaps on another visit, he could bring a box and pack them. He knew just the spot he’d put them. Away from any potential harm.

They eventually found themselves in the backroom. Vignettes of memories passed through Aziraphale. Chocolates, flowers, on the grand opening; religious documentation of inventory; late nights hosting authors. It all flooded back in droves. Remnants of emotions shimmered around him. Joy, fear, protectiveness, and — and — and oh! Another emotion hit him, a butterfly kiss barely there.

There was Crowley from the 1750s, seated on the floor; there was Crowley from the 1980s, sauntering across the room as he did; and there was Crowley from the now, stood in the middle of the room and gazing at Aziraphale as if he couldn't believe he existed.

Absence made the view of their garden grow clearer, made the heart become an observable thing. How had he missed it? Years, decades — hell — _centuries _of love directed at him practically permeated the atmosphere. How had he been so blind? 

And it hit him, suddenly, counterproductively, that he _missed_ being blind. He missed the ignorance of it all, of not noticing this overwhelming feeling of being confined to one part of their garden. It rained down upon his uncovered self, poured harder than any storm on Earth. Sure, he’d had an inkling of its existence before, just never...never the absolute timespan of it. Centuries. At a minimum from when he’d first opened this bookshop of his, up until now. And not a word of it. _ Centuries. _

Why did he miss being blind? It should be better now that he knew. He could venture out, discover new plants with him. Water those that have been neglected. It should be better —

The backroom burnt down around them as the rain came down in torrents.

“Looking a bit unwell there, Angel.”

“I’m...alright.” A lie. “It's quite a, quite a bit m…” he trailed off. He felt his lips downturn, his vision become blurred. His palm felt wet from where he pushed it against his eyes. Fuck.

“We don’t have to stay any longer,” Crowley said, tender, the barest of trembles interlaced. “We can, we can go. Back home. Or — or anywhere else you wish to go.”

_ I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go. _

He’s back in the Bentley, tartan thermos given away. “_You go too fast for me, Crowley._”

And he felt something awful now. It hadn’t been twenty-odd years, the love. It hadn’t been as new as he had once thought it had been. He'd made him wait, and wait, and wait. Time and time again. But there was nothing to say over it, was there? He very well couldn’t gush out reciprocation _now_, not when it'd threaten to rain down around Crowley, too.

So Aziraphale nodded. Sniffed. Nodded some more.

They left, and Crowley locked the shop up for him.

The key felt heavy when it was given back. Felt much the same as a heart with stones laden inside.

* * *

They didn't bring up the bookshop again, not for a while. And maybe it was better that way.

* * *

Crowley had his back to him. His hair, messy from sleep, fell over his shoulders as he rummaged through the pantry. He slept more lately, Aziraphale noticed. He slept more and for longer periods of time. Dead to the world. And Aziraphale found he missed their morning routine; where Crowley sipped on his iced coffee and Aziraphale enjoyed a nice Tetley, where they discussed Crowley's latest weird dream, where they welcomed the day together. Missed _him_. 

He came up to Crowley's side, scratched the back of Crowley's head before letting his hand fall down his back. Crowley startled at the unexpected contact. "Aziraphale," Crowley greeted, turned his head to look at him.

"Want me to cook you something?"

"I've seen you bake."

"But you haven't seen me cook."

Crowley fully turned around, hands leaning on the pantry's shelf behind him. Aziraphale let his own hand slide with Crowley's body's movement until it settled on his waist. And was it him, or was Crowley leaning toward him?

"1977," Crowley said, a grin on his face. Proud. Proud that he remembered. Or kept remembering. "1956, 1816 _twice, _1692..."

"What is it you're trying to say, my dear?"

"That you," Crowley bopped Aziraphale's nose, "can't cook to save our lives."

Aziraphale let go of Crowley's waist with a huff, and Crowley turned back around to keep foraging for food.

* * *

The entire day felt stressed. Difficult. Nothing to show for it, either, so it had to be the weather. It had to be, even if Aziraphale felt in his heart it wasn't.

They took refuge inside the living room, New Order on the record player. Auden in Aziraphale's hands.

Aziraphale read, “I stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.” 

Crowley poured whiskey into two tumblers, gave Aziraphale one and took the other.

“He was my North, my South, my East, and West.”

Crowley, with a strange expression on his face, downed his drink.

“I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.”

Crowley, like the amber in his drink, disappeared.

Aziraphale found him, hours later, sat on the grass between blue hydrangea bushes, back to the cottage. The summer heat swirled around them, a Van Gogh painting, and gave the night a sort of static about it. Flowers, previously on their utmost behavior, held themselves in an almost-mourning way. Leaves drooped to their respective sides, unwithered, and the petals on the flowers leaned over a smidge. Even the grass held itself low, respectful, as if the static in the atmosphere imparted a sadness upon them. Peculiar, if not a tad worrying.

Less peculiar, more worrying, was it to see Crowley hunched over how he was. On his knees, almost prayer-like, head tilted back. There were no gardening tools around. He gave no inclination he heard Aziraphale’s approach. Between the flora and the static and Crowley’s mood, it felt like something Aziraphale should not be privy to. A secret for Crowley and Crowley alone. 

He ought to turn back around.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

Crowley flinched, the barest form of startlement, and wiped something off his face. “Never better.”

A silence, before an offered explanation for a question not yet asked:

“Anniversary.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale responded as the air left his chest. Armageddon. A vulture that now dove for the carcass. His fingers twitched. He wrung his hands. 

The grass felt like pine needles against his palm when he lowered himself down to sit beside Crowley. He very purposefully did not look at him. “Would you like to, erm, would you like to —”

“It’s the second year since I thought I lost my best friend.”

“So it is.”

The static felt stifling in their shared moment of silence. Somehow, in the moonlight, the hydrangeas seemed permeable. Translucent. Definitely mesmer — 

“I thought I lost you,” Crowley began, voice tight. And if that didn’t make Aziraphale look at him… “Thought you were dead, murdered in hellfire.”

Already caught in a vulnerable position, Crowley now offered himself emotionally exposed. It was a weighted openness borne out of mutual trust. And it hit Aziraphale, dots finally connected, that he was the lost best friend. The dead best friend. Someone who Crowley had mourned for and still possessed a fear of losing. 

It took a moment to digest the gravity of what went down, and Aziraphale wondered if they ever should've visited the bookshop at all.

_ The stars are not wanted now: put out every one. _

Crowley’s face felt cool, if not a bit damp from tears, beneath his palm as Aziraphale took it in his hands. Gently, he wiped his thumbs under his eyes. “But dearest, I’m not dead. I am very, very much alive,” he assured. Tried not to let his voice tighten, too. “I had been trying to speak with the Almighty when Shadwell came in. I don’t know what happened after that, or how the bookshop burnt, as I’d already been discorporated by then. But look at me, Crowley, I’m _alive._ I’m not going anywhere. I —”

He faltered, decided against his selfish confession. No, not while they sat between blue hydrangeas and reawakened trauma. No, not when tears fell like stars from Crowley’s eyes. No, this was not the time.

“I’m staying with you,” he finished.

Crowley held onto Aziraphale’s wrist; gazed into his eyes with such sadness, Aziraphale wanted to move mountains for it to go away. He didn’t know how, though. He didn’t know how to make it any better. Didn’t know what to say that could help alleviate the pain.

“What do you need? What can I do to help you?” he asked, the barest of whispers as he dropped his hands.

Softer, still, came an answer: “Hold me.”

So Aziraphale did. Tucked Crowley into his chest, arms around him, one hand cradling his head. He traced soothing patterns on his scalp when he felt tears wet his shirt. He held him under the stars, ached for him between the bushes, and loved him with his entire soul. And if this was all he could do for him — simply provide comfort now — then he hoped he was at least competent in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poems explicitly read: "The More Loving One" and "Funeral Blues" by W. H. Auden


End file.
